


the eagle's path

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Series: One-Shot Collections [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gen, Gore, Halloween fics included, Horror, Jealousy, One Shot Collection, Pregnant!Reader, Romance, Spoilers, Spoilers for Ac3, The Animus (Assassin's Creed), description of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: a collection of one shots from ac1, ac2, ac brotherhood, ac revelations and ac3.





	1. Fireworks [Ezio Auditore]

**Author's Note:**

> more fics being transferred over from the blog! (why didn't I keep on top of this from the start..???)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His fingers skirt along the edge of your mask and your breath hitches in your throat. He’s gentle, more gentle than you expect, and you’re not used to being treated like this; you’re used to being spoken down to and treated with disdain, used to barbed words and taunts from your parents who wish for an advantageous marriage and little else from you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by ohmygoshcheese through the blog!

_Carnevale_ is supposed to be a celebration, you think bitterly, but you can’t seem to escape from the unwanted suitor pursuing you through the crowds of masked dancers.

Damn your parents for setting up this match. Damn your parents for thinking that your biological clock is ticking.

 _Damn your parents_.

You duck into an alley and behind a masked couple loitering at its mouth, and pray that the fireworks won’t start too soon, pray that they won’t start and light the shadows you are using to your advantage. The wall behind your back is cold and your fingers claw at it nervously as you watch the crowded street warily.

Your suitor passes by, peering into the darkness around you, and walks away.

You breathe a relieved exhale and drop your head against the wall, staring upwards at the night sky overhead. Maybe now you can finally enjoy yourself; maybe now you’ve finally gotten across the message you’ve been trying and failing to for months now.

You wander from the alley, checking every face carefully but finding yourself mercifully alone in the crowd, and another relieved breath parts your lips. No one gives you a second glance, too occupied in the strangers they’re spending time with, and the beautiful masks that surround you give you an idea.

There’s a stand by the waterside with masks of different shapes and styles and colours and the seller appears excited when he sees you approaching, your face bare of any mask. He starts to bustle towards you, drawing you close by the hand and thrusting mask after mask into your hands and bidding you look at your reflection.

The one you pick is gold and black and simple, a mask that sits demurely over your eyes and hides just enough of your face to let you pass by unnoticed. The seller appears satisfied and refuses your money when you try to pay him.

“It has been taken care of, _tesoro_ ,” he says vaguely, shooing you away. “Go, go! The fireworks will start soon!”

He’s pushing you away and refusing to say anymore on the matter and you’re so stunned that you let him.

“But –“

“Go, go!”

There’s a couple stepping in front of you, drawing his attention, and his words ring in your head; _go, go_! It’s all you’ve wanted to do since waking up this morning, all you’ve wanted since last year when your parents refused your plea to let you go, but now the moment is coming and you’re nervous and scared and unsure.

 _What if it’s nothing like you imagined_?

The crowds are gathering now and you’ve hardly moved from the stand. You don’t think you can – _I should go home_ , you think warily, hesitating mid-step – and then an arm hooks yours and, startled, you swing your gaze to your new companion.

He’s wearing white and red, an outfit that you think should look ridiculous but instead seems dangerous. Dark hair is pulled from his face and held by a red tie at the back of his neck and dark eyes twinkle behind the silver mask that hides his face from you. There’s a scar through his lips and you can’t help but feel like whoever this stranger is, he’s _beautiful_.

Beautiful and dangerous.

“ _Ciao dolce_ ,” he murmurs, lips quirked in a delectable smirk that has your heart skipping a beat.

“ _Salve_ ,” you whisper in return, still wary of this stranger but thinking that this is _carnevale_ – you are surrounded by strangers in masks, none of who you expect will hurt you.

He hums low in his throat, his eyes appraising your face – _no_ , you realise, _not my face. The mask_.

“It suits you,” he says sweetly and you’re flattered and distracted for a couple of seconds before his words fully hit you.

“Wait,” you say, drawing back slightly and looking up at him. “You paid for this?”

His fingers skirt along the edge of your mask and your breath hitches in your throat. He’s gentle, more gentle than you expect, and you’re not used to being treated like this; you’re used to being spoken down to and treated with disdain, used to barbed words and taunts from your parents who wish for an advantageous marriage and little else from you.

When he starts to walk, following the crowd, you allow yourself to be led by him.

“Who are you?” you ask curiously, and then, before he can answer, “Why did you help me?”

 _It’s unnecessary_ , you want to add, because you had the money yourself to pay for the mask and you don’t even know this man – why would he do this?

He stops the two of you near the crowd amassing by the waterfront, watching the ships floating innocently on the water. Your stomach churns and your hands shake; it’s going to start soon.

“I know a trapped soul when I see one,” says the stranger, and his eyes meet yours again, enchanting and magical. This is what _carnevale_ is about, you remember your old governess telling you, mystery and magic and beauty in all things. “I simply wanted to save you before I no longer can.”

 _A trapped soul_ , you think, _is that what I am?_

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang overhead and a streak of blue light, followed by greens and golds and yellows and red, exploding across the sky in cacophonies of colours unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It steals your breath from your throat and makes you forget your hesitations and doubts, catches you in a trance and enchants your soul.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

You think he hasn’t heard you until he murmurs, “ _Sì,_ ” with his eyes fixed firmly on you. There’s a small and gentle smile on your lips and confusion in your eyes: he thinks you’re trapped; he thinks you need to be saved. He’s not wrong but how does he _know_?

“Like a thousand stars,” you murmur, as the fireworks continue to light up the sky above the two of you. The lights catch on the silver of your companion’s mask and turn the white of his robes into a mosaic of different colours.

 _Mystery and magic and beauty_ , you hear your governess saying again as you find yourself drawn forward inexplicably towards this stranger. There’s something about the protection of the mask, you think, something about the celebrations around you that protects you and strengthens you, even if this stranger knows who you are beneath the disguise.

His lips are soft against your own, gentle and eager and hungry, and you don’t know what it is that’s come over you, if it’s the magic of _carnevale_ , but your inhibitions are in the sky, exploding with the fireworks. You clutch at the robes under your hands, your hands travelling upwards until your fingers are tangled in locks of dark hair.

You break apart breathlessly and you’re lost in his eyes, never wanting this moment and this night to end.

“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely because you know that all good things must end. You peck his lips one last time, quick and gentle and full of everything you wish you could say: _I don’t know who you are but thank you_. _Thank you_.

Your life as you know it will be over when you return home, return home to the clutches of your power seeking parents and their ambitions.

“You are most welcome, _stella_ ,” he breathes against you lips and then, after stealing another kiss and reluctantly stepping away from you, “Do not give up hope.”

You’ve no idea what he means by that, how he knows anything about you, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. He starts to leave and you’re reluctant to let go of his hand, to let go of the one person who has made you feel more alive than you have in months.

“Your name,” you gasp, in the seconds before you’re parted from him once more.

His lips quirk and he draws his hood.

“Ezio Auditore da Firenze.”

Your heart stops.

 _Assassino_ , you think, because you’ve heard the name murmured behind the closed door of your father’s study, heard it hissed between breaths when your mother thinks you’re not listening.

He holds a finger to his still smirking lips and his eyes never leave your face, watching the emotions play across your features and reading you like an open book.

“Until we meet again, _stella_ ,” he tells you, a promise or a threat, you can’t be sure, and then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tesoro; darling /-/-/-/ ciao / salve; hello /-/-/-/ dolce; sweet /-/-/-/ stella; star


	2. Fireworks [Ezio Auditore]

At first you think you’re imagining it; the cocking of his head as he looks directly at you, the narrowing of his eyes as they rest upon your still form. You think he’s looking behind you, at something past your shoulder, because you’re too well trained – _hide in plain sight_ , the words engrained in your bones – and he can’t possibly have seen you.

But then he’s storming through the crowd, shoving his way through lightly, like a ghost, disturbing nothing and no one as he passes, and you’ve never felt more terrified of him than now.

You can see his lips turn down as he frowns from here but it’s all you stop to see, because fight or flight instincts are taking over and while you’re _good_ , you’re not _that_ good, and if Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad catches you, it’s all _over_.

You turn on your heel, disturbing the sand at your feet, and sprint as fast as you can in the opposite direction from him.

Your eyes are darting all over as you leap from rooftop to rooftop, towards the bustling crowds below, searching for an escape route, for a hiding place, but taking too long and panicking too much and _damn it_ , Malik is going to _kill_ you.

You can hear his voice now, his ranting and raving when you stumble back into the bureau, caught and a failure, with Altaïr hot on your heels and just as angry. You’ve heard about Altaïr’s temper – it’s practically legendary among the other novices (because he’s one too, you have to keep reminding yourself, even if he has the skillset of a master assassin and could easily kill you without you being able to put up much of a fight).

Your feet are unbearably loud on the rooftops, unlike him, whose eyes you can _feel_ burning holes into your back, silent and deadly and every bit the predator you’ve heard he is.

 _Malik is going to kill me_ , you think again, and then, chancing a glance over your shoulder at your hooded pursuer, _if Altaïr doesn’t get there first_.

You feel like you’ve been bowled over by a bull, the strength of which the other assassin knocks into you, forcing you to the sandy rooftop with his thick arms around your waist – because you can feel them, arms like that don’t come from sitting around all day and doing nothing, you can _feel_ the dedication to his craft in those muscles.

He forces you to your back, hovering over you, and while you know he would never hurt you, not another of his assassin brethren, it doesn’t diminish the terror you feel at his hidden blade lingering close to your throat, too close for comfort. You lean back as much as you’re able but you can still feel the cool metal against your flesh, and you can’t see anything of the man above you except his chin and the pale white scar running through his lips.

“Why are you following me?” he demands and, _yes_ , you have to remember how his voice sounds so you have an input in this discussion from here on because he _does_ sound heavenly.

Angry, but no less heavenly.

“Orders,” you gasp and you press gingerly at his chest, hoping to convince him to back up a little. “I swear,” you add, “if I had a choice in this, I would not be here.”

“Whose orders?”

“The Mentor’s.”

It’s not a lie; you may have received word that this was your duty from Malik, but _he_ received the order from Al Mualim and you’re just doing as you’re told.

You watch an emotion you can only describe as _hurt_ cross Altaïr’s face before it’s quickly schooled into a blank mask. He rises from you, his hidden blade disappearing from sight, and doesn’t offer you a hand to help you up.

“Al Mualim is having me watched?” He asks, and you have to be imagining the betrayal lacing his voice, you have to be, because this is Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad, the best of the best.

“Well,” you snap, dragging yourself to your feet with as much grace as you can and brushing the dust from your robes, “you haven’t exactly done much to instil a great deal of confidence in your abilities lately, have you?”

It’s a low-blow, even coming from you, and as embarrassed as you are to have been caught so easily – really, you shouldn’t be, he’s got far too much experience on you and it wasn’t a fair test of your skill; he’s a _master assassin_ in all but rank, of course he was going to catch you – even you know that bite in your words is unnecessary.

You’re expecting a snapping retort in return, expecting the legendary temper you’ve only heard whispered about in the echoing halls of Masyaf, but instead Altaïr just ponders the words you’ve said and sighs heavily.

“That is true,” he concedes and you’re so shocked that you can’t say anything at all. Where is the temper? Where is the arrogance you’ve heard stories about?

This can’t be the same Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad you’ve watched in the halls of Masyaf, the same demoted master assassin that you’ve seen training in the courtyard.

You blink owlishly and there are no words. You’re confused and lost – what the hell happened to him? Has the arrogant master assassin finally been humbled?

“Um, alright,” you murmur, because the silence is awful but there’s nothing else for you to say.

He escorts you back to the Bureau, to the angry Malik behind the counter, glowering furiously at the two of you as you descend slowly into the airy space. You must seem nervous, before you’ve even turned the corner and seen the man, and you’re breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself down – because _damn_ it, even missing an arm, Malik can be scary as hell and he can still kill you with little fight from you – and finding that it’s terribly hard.

You jump as Altaïr’s hand cups your elbow, a gentle touch that you think is completely the opposite of what you’d expect from the man – the stories are not matching up, they’re not even close – and somehow you’re relaxing. He waits with you until you’re ready, when you’d expected him to have abandoned you long ago, and words cannot express how grateful you are.

“I will explain,” Altaïr says quietly, “you are not at fault here.”

Except you _are_ – it’s not his fault at all and it doesn’t seem right to you that he’s going to take the fall when it’s your own inadequacies as an assassin that had him catch you.

“But –“

“I will handle this. Wait here.”

He walks away before you can say anything else and your voice is caught in your throat, staring absently, worriedly after him, especially after you hear Malik’s biting voice from within.

Their voices are raised, travelling out to you where you stand in the shade of the overhang of the bureau, but you aren’t listening, not really, because you can still feel Altaïr’s hand on your elbow, the warmth of his skin, and you’re sure no one has ever looked as you as gently as he had before.

You’re sure _he_ ’s never looked at anyone as gently as he’d looked at you.

You shake your head, perplexed and awed, and settle on one of the cushions to wait for the two to emerge, pondering the once master assassin himself and the changes you can quite clearly see in him.

The stories aren’t wrong, you think, you’re sure they’re not because there’s too many people who have told you the same thing; _avoid him, he does not embody the Creed_.

 _People change_ , you think, and from your position you can see the white of his robes, the red of his sash, the glint of the weapons upon his person. Malik is the only one talking, snapping words at a man who is taking them gracefully, in the way you once believed Altaïr would never.

A small smile graces your face.

 _Yes_ , you think again, as Altaïr turns his head to meet your eyes, an imperceptible look on his face, _people change_.


	3. Youth [Desmond Miles]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The stupid little white stick in your hand that’s just handed you the worst news you could possibly hear right now seems so innocent, staring up at you with that single blue line. A single blue line that could have possibly just ruined your life._
> 
>  
> 
> _Lovely._

You’d find the whole thing comical, a painful irony, really, if not for the impending doom lurking over your head.

 _Pregnant_ , you think dismally, _really, what are the fucking odds_?

You feel like screaming, feel like turning your head to the skies and _shrieking_. Are the odds not stacked enough already or something? Does someone up there think you don’t have enough motivation already? Do you need just that little bit more to convince you to get your head out of your _ass_?

The stupid little white stick in your hand that’s just handed you the worst news you could possibly hear _right now_ seems so innocent, staring up at you with that single blue line. A single blue line that could have possibly just ruined your life.

Lovely.

You throw it hard as you can, with all your might, and watch it disappear into the darkness of the First Civ temple. Everything even remotely _blue_ pisses you off now; the dim glow of the temple around you, your ruined jeans with the ripped knees, the streak of blue on your glove.

Yesterday your only worry was preventing the end of the world, keeping your friends safe, and winning the Assassin-Templar war. How the _hell_ are you supposed to raise a child amongst all this _chaos_?

 _Jesus_ , you think, throwing your head back against the cool stone behind you. _How the hell did I miss this_?

You already know the answer, obviously. It’s not hard to put the puzzle pieces together, not hard to remember that _one night_ (and really, what are the _fucking odds_ , you get your one perfect, steamy night with the one _perfect_ guy you’ve been crushing on since meeting and _bam_ , _preggers_ , someone up there is laughing at you) and _god_ , how the hell are you supposed to tell _him_?

You can hear his voice, hear the yelling between father and son, the stress of the situation finally getting to everyone. You should be over there, should be helping and being supportive, instead of hiding away and _freaking out_ on your own.

(Why is it that the only thing you can think right now of is that one _Friends_ episode? Surely you have better things to worrying about right now?)

You can hear Shaun now, joining the fray, that pompous and irritatingly endearing voice of his sounding oddly calming given the shouts and yells you’d heard previously. The voices die down and you close your eyes against the sudden quiet, thinking and hating and _worrying_.

 _God_ , you think, blinking rapidly to clear the tears stinging at your eyes. _How the hell am I supposed to tell him_?

(“ _You know condoms are only 99.9% effective_!”)

You can hear his steps, hear the scuffing of the soles of his feet as he kicks rocks away before eventually you can feel him right beside you, his body heat a stark contrast to the cool stone behind your head.

The last time the two of you had been this close and this _alone_ , you’d been naked.

“Hey,” Desmond says slowly, quietly, and with an exhausted sigh that has her heart lurching and her stomach churning. “You okay?”

 _No,_ you want to say, _and you wouldn’t be either if you knew_.

Instead, because he looks tired and troubled and the weight of the world is on his shoulders, you say, “I’m fine. Perfectly peachy. A-okay.”

(“ _Well they should put that on the box_!”)

“You sure?” he presses and you can’t look at him, not like this, terror picking at your insides and forcing you to tug on a loose strand of at the ripped knees of your jeans.

“Yep,” you say, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. You’ve never, _ever_ , popped a ‘p’ before. “I’m the one who should be asking that, y’know.”

Desmond sighs as you cock your head towards his father, pacing the walkway of the temple and not once looking in your direction. He shakes his head and when he exhales it’s laced with frustration.

Before you can overthink anything, you reach out and place your hand over his, and you’re surprised by how remarkably steady your hand is when inside you’re screaming and wishing you could just _tell_ him.

Things can never be simple can they?

“It’s just stress,” you tell him, and you fight to maintain eye contact when his dark eyes meet your own. Desmond doesn’t talk much about his Eagle Vision with you; can he tell right now? Does he _know_? “We all know how much you’re sacrificing by doing this.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Desmond says quietly, with that infuriating smirk that had you dropping your panties in seconds those couple of months ago, “sex is a great form of stress relief.”

And wouldn’t you just _love_ to take him up on that offer. Unfortunately, you have a hitchhiker in your body that you imagine might not take too kindly to that.

So, as much as you hate to turn him down – and you _do_ , you really, _really_ do – you don’t have a choice.

(“ _They do_!”)

Besides, you’re not really one for public sex and this First Civilisation temple is a little too _open_ , a little too _risky_. There’s no way you’d get away with it, not without someone mentioning something (most likely Shaun).

“I really don’t think now is the time,” you murmur, hating the breathlessness of your voice in his close proximity, hating the way he leans back a tad irately. You hate being the one to ruin the mood, to halt the flirting, but there’s far too much at stake. You hate to sound like Desmond’s _father_ , and your eyes dart over to his pacing form again.

Desmond’s eyes follow your and he sighs angrily, his expression stormy as he gets to his feet. The spell over the two of you is broken, the easy going nature and the brief flirting, that simple – _so simple_ – suggestion of sex that has your thoughts running wild.

 _It was a one-night stand_ , you tell yourself, _and it doesn’t mean a thing_.

You watch his back as he storms away and recall the weeks after, when he’d let you borrow his hoodie in _Monteriggioni_. For those few blissful days it had felt like more than that, like you’d had a connection, a secret to keep. You’ve never been that close to anyone before – the job you do doesn’t leave much time for personal relationships – but the news that it was just _stress relief_ , harmless flirting, friends with benefits…

“Only a one-night stand,” you murmur, blinking back the tears again and turning away. You bring your arms up, hugging yourself for warmth in the cavernous temple and feeling more alone than ever. Now you know, without a doubt, that you can’t tell him.

Friends with benefits don’t get pregnant. Friends with benefits don’t start families together.

And still, despite the gravity of your situation, Ross Gellar’s voice echoes in your head, grating, taunting, over and over again.

(“ _Well they should put it in big black letters_!”)

Who knew the day would come when you’d be relating your life to Ross Gellar’s?

* * *

You’ve resolved to not tell him.

It’s not worth it, you think, worrying him over something so little when he has enough problems on his plate. The world’s impending doom is much more important than your- unborn baby, you try to tell herself, but the words sound hollow and cold you struggle to believe it.

It’s probably your maternal instincts kicking in, it has to be, what else could it be?

You find it hard to concentrate like this, find it hard to think about something other than the baby for more than five minutes, hard to think about what you’re going to do now. You can’t leave – Abstergo _know_ you’ve been with Desmond, leaving now would only endanger him and the others.

You don’t think you can do it anyway. You can’t leave Desmond now, not like this, not because you’re afraid. You’ve been afraid more times than this over the course of your life – fear comes hand in hand with being an assassin, after all – and you like to think you’ve managed to get through that with some decorum.

(You haven’t been screaming non-stop since finding out anyway, so that’s a good sign, right?)

Staying here, with the threat of danger circling over your head constantly, is better than being out there alone. Hiding your pregnancy from the father is better than going it alone and potentially getting caught – you don’t even want to think about what would happen if Abstergo find out you’re carrying Desmond’s baby.

And now you’re blinking back tears again, staring unseeing at Desmond in the Animus, doing something productive while you’re silently freaking out a few feet away.

You sniffle, rubbing at your nose as you turn away, staring hard at the files on the stone table and _willing_ yourself to do something productive. There has to be something about First Civ technology somewhere, something that can help –

“Hey,” Rebecca says, and her hand on your arm is gentle and comforting and surprising. “You okay?”

You nod, still sniffling, refusing to look at her tears pepper the papers before you. Rebecca’s hand rubs your back in soothing circles until you’re rubbing at the tears staining your cheeks and hating how easily you’ve crumbled under the pressure.

“Shouldn’t you be watching Desmond?” you manage to croak past the lump in your throat, wiping at your eyes again and forcing yourself to face Rebecca fully.

“Where’s he gonna go?” the other woman returns, leaning beside you on the stone table. At your unimpressed look, Rebecca hops onto the table, gesturing to you to join, and the two of you are watching Desmond’s immobile body as he relives his ancestor’s memories.

“He can’t hear us, can he?” you ask tentatively, still sniffling and wiping at your nose. You’re frowning at him, finding strange comfort in the fact he can’t see you like this, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot and a hand hovering over your stomach.

It must be so easy to put the pieces together, seeing you like this. Rebecca certainly seems to know there’s something going on.

“No,” she says, “not over here he can’t.”

You nod, breathing deeply – _in and out, in and out_ – but nothing seems to be helping. You start crying again, small sniffles that give way to choking sobs and Rebecca’s hand never stops rubbing your back.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, and finally say, “I’m pregnant.”

There’s no judgement, not like you expect, and Rebecca doesn’t even look surprised. You had imagined her leaning back, leaning away, her gentle and comforting expression morphing into one of disgust and horror but, instead, she smiles and nods.

“Desmond’s the-?” Rebecca whispers and over your shoulder you see Bill, hovering near the power console beside the Animus. You nod wordlessly, unable to say the words aloud, unable to face the reality that comes with them.

“He doesn’t know,” you whisper, shaking your head and the words weigh heavy on your heart for a reason you can’t fathom. “I’m not sure I want him to.”

“Shit,” Rebecca says.

And those are your thoughts exactly, have been since that stupid little stick gave you that dreaded result. You can still picture that little blue line whenever you close her eyes, and you’re not sure if it’s just because now you _know_ you’re carrying another human being inside yourself, but you can _feel_ the baby now, you’re sure of it.

You’re almost wishing you can go back to yesterday, when you suspected but didn’t _know_ , when you were oblivious to the baby’s presence. That little blue line has made everything so definitive, so _real_.

“Look, obviously, I don’t know what you’re going through,” Rebecca says and her eyes dart from your stomach to your face and back again. You wonder if Rebecca’s imagining what you’ll look like with a baby bump – what _will_ you look like with a baby bump?  “I don’t know what you’re thinking about this whole thing but… not telling Desmond? That’s a bad call.”

“He’s going through enough,” you tell her instinctually, and your voice is clipped and hard, angry. It feels like your go-to answer now, even if you’ve only been convincing yourself. “He doesn’t need me piling more crap on him.”

“Wow, okay, way to sound like Bill,” Rebecca says and you eye Bill behind you as he hears his name, shooting you both a curious frown. “This isn’t some other Brotherhood bullshit like what we’re going through, okay? This is his _child_. That’s different.” She pauses. “And don’t call your baby ‘ _crap_ ’, okay? And you better name me godmother or auntie or something.”

“What if he doesn’t want a baby?” There’s a trace of panic lacing your voice now, a hint of hysteria behind your words, real fears finally given a voice. “What if I tell him and he wants nothing to do with us?”

“Come on,” Rebecca says and if you didn’t know her you’d be offended by the eye roll you’re given. “Do you even know Desmond? At all? All he _wants_ is an ordinary life – a kid, a beautiful girl, a _family_. He wants this. _Tell_ him.”

“You guys okay?”

Wide-eyed, all you can think is _shit what the fuck_ as you turn to look at Desmond, panic and surprise written plainly on your face. He’s sitting up on the Animus, rubbing his hands down his face and looking absolutely _exhausted_ , and you’re so on the spot that all you can think is that _he knows_ and _he heard_ and _he’s just pretending to sound thoughtful_.

But he looks so genuine, so _tired_ and he’s looking between you and Rebecca with so much concern, it’s not _fair_.

So, before you can do something stupid like blurt the words resting on the tip of your tongue, you get the hell out of there.

* * *

“Running away? Really, I expected better.”

“Fuck off, Shaun,” you snap bitterly. “So not in the mood right now.”

He doesn’t and you’re not really surprised because, after all, he wouldn’t be Shaun if he did what was asked. He sidles to where you’re slumped on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall behind you. He doesn’t say anything as he slides down the wall to join you, sitting so close you can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch.

There’s a few moments of blissful silence before he speaks, a few minutes of nothingness that you wish you can hold onto forever, especially if it means avoid awkward conversations and questions you want nothing more than to never answer. Ever.

 _Ever_.

“So… are you going to tell him?”

He watches your face as an annoyed scowl crosses your features, right before you’re smacking his arm and angrily glaring over his shoulder to where Rebecca keeps sending you worried glances. You’re ready to go to _war_ now, ready to storm up to your friend and ask where _trust_ between friends has gone now, and does the bond of friendship between females really mean so _little_ nowadays?

For a few moments, it doesn’t feel like the secret is as big as all that, as big as a pregnancy. It feels ordinary, like nothing, like you’ve made a normal mistake that can be solved as easily as sitting down with Desmond and apologising.

(Although, if anyone needs to apologise to _anyone_ , it’s Desmond because it should _really_ be illegal to be that good of a smooth talker.)

“She _told_ you?” you ask incredulously, and instantly feelings you’ve successfully managed to smother begin to surface; thoughts of _Lucy_ , of what she’d say in this situation, of how supportive she’d be, of the advice _she’d_ give.

You’re shaking your head, pressing the palms of your hands to your eyes to try and ignore these unwanted feeling and thoughts, these unwanted memories that tug at your heartstrings and make you nauseous. Lucy had feelings for Desmond, you recall, but then she’d been exposed and he’d killed her and _god_ , what is he going to do in the face of a _pregnancy_?

Your thoughts are getting erratic and crazy now. You _know_ Desmond and you _know_ that he never wanted to kill Lucy, that he was _used_ against his will – the shock sent him into a _coma_ after all – and these thoughts are unwarranted.

“No,” Shaun scoffs without missing a beat, drawing you out of her craziness, drawing you away from the turn your thoughts are taking, “you two really aren’t as secretive as you like to believe. _I_ am an assassin too, remember?”

Of course he is, _of course_ he is, but Shaun had been the last thing on your mind when you were talking to Rebecca. You hadn’t even imagined he’d be curious enough to eavesdrop, hadn’t even pegged him as the type to feel left out of an emotional conversation like that.

You sigh, hating the way her eyes are stinging with tears again. You manage to say, “I don’t know,” before the first of the tears trails down your cheeks, and then you’re saying it over and over again, lamenting, “I don’t know, I don’t know, _I don’t know_.”  

Because you _don’t_. It’s not something you’ve ever had to think about before, not something you’ve even _considered_. You’re an assassin first, always have been, an assassin before everything else, born into the order like Desmond but accepting of your fate and trapped in this life.

You’ve never thought about having a family, having a _normal_ life. It’s never seemed possible before.

“You know,” Shaun muses, “it’s not often Becks is right –“

“What?” you cut in, huffing a laugh through your tears and wiping at your eyes _again_. You’re getting really tired of all this _crying_. “She’s always right.”

“Yes, well, I’m not going to tell _her_ that, am I?”

You shrug, admitting defeat without _actually_ admitting it, a familiar reaction whenever you and Shaun speak. He’s always _right_ , and you hate that, hate that he always gets the last word, _always_.

“I know,” you mutter, “he deserves to know. I’m just scared.”

“Well, yes, I imagine you would be,” Shaun says pompously, haughtily but with no real flare behind it. If you wasn’t used to him by now, you’d be offended (you’re really beginning to see a pattern with the people you call _friends_ here). “It’s a scary thing.”

“I’ll tell him,” you say, nodding your head and trying to sound sure, “I will.”

But even with all your bold words, even with telling yourself over and over again, you’re not sure if it’s true.

And Shaun knows it too, because when he says, “no, you won’t,” so simply, so _surely_ , you have nothing to say to disprove him.

* * *

You get two days before it all falls apart; two days of Desmond being blissfully ignorant towards the person growing inside you, two days of him acting _normal,_ two days of still being an _assassin_.

But then, because it’s you and these things _always_ happen to you no matter what kind of day you’re having, Desmond finds out and the lie you were beginning to perfectly craft in your head shatters into pieces.

And, of course – you really hate that you didn’t see it coming, you _should_ have seen it _coming_ – it’s Shaun who blows the whistle on the whole thing. He makes it seem like an accident, like a slip of the tongue, but you know better.

Rebecca was managing just fine, knowing her place and staying out of it, so why Shaun felt the need to get involved, you’ll never know but you’re grateful for your assassin skills, because he’s been avoiding you, and you think he’s wary of what you might do.

And he has good reason to be wary because you think you might just kill him if you’re left alone with him.

You’re getting the same impression from everyone, if you’re being very honest with yourself, and you want to think that it’s just the hormones and the pregnancy and the sheer _anger_ radiating from your skin, but you’re not sure if it is.

You’re getting tired of waiting for Desmond to come see you, getting tired of sitting on these worries and thoughts that only web into more worried thoughts the longer you sit on them, and you’re getting tired of everyone walking on eggshells around you.

Aren’t people supposed to _love_ pregnant women? Aren’t they supposed to come up to you and coo and shit? Aren’t people supposed to insert themselves into conversations unnecessarily and unwanted just because you’re pregnant?

Where are all these people? Why are you sitting alone in a cold temple with _no one_?

These thoughts draw another long, tired sigh from your lips, and your body slumps against the stone behind you. You’re just beginning to think you shouldn’t bother moving anymore, so used to the cold stone as you are, when you hear scuffing steps.

Desmond clears his throat.

You gesture idly to the empty space at your side but don’t look at him, eyes fixed on the cracks in the stone at your feet. You don’t think you can pull yourself to look at the disappointment, the rage, every feeling you’ve dreaded seeing in him since that stupid little stick –

“Were you going to tell me?”

You’ve been dreading hearing those words, been dreading giving him an answer that you’re not sure is truth or lie.

You wanted to tell him but that doesn’t necessarily mean you would have and, likewise, not telling him wouldn’t have been the end of the world – he’s _busy_ with the _actual_ end of the world after all.

A baby, like you’ve thought what feels like a million times over now, has no place in this world, in the Assassin-Templar war.

You say, “Yes,” and hate the way you’re voice quivers, hate the way the words sound hollow like every lie you’ve been telling lately. “There was never a good time.”

Except there were plenty of good times, plenty of moments you could have pulled him aside and just _told_ him, just blurted out the words as easy as the way you’d agreed to get into bed with him.

Desmond scoffs. “Sure,” he says and you’ve never felt more ashamed in your life.

You want to get to your feet and crawl into a hole somewhere, to disappear and never have to deal with any of this again.

You decide to bite your tongue – you don’t Desmond wants to hear right now that you were hoping he wouldn’t find out until the baby was old enough to talk. Then it could tell him instead of you.

Desmond is staring at you with narrowed eyes, with a heated glare that makes you wish you could dissolve where you sit. You can only hold his eyes for so long before you’re caving and looking away, biting your lip and blinking back fearful tears.

You’re ready for the words to come out of his mouth before he even is, ready for him to tell you he wants nothing to do with you or the baby, ready for him to tell you to leave the temple now. He probably can’t focus while you’re here now, probably can’t focus while you’re in such close proximity with his child inside you.

He sighs and all you can think is _here we go_ while you close your eyes and pray it will be over quick, that whatever he has to say will be said quickly and as painlessly as possible.

(But who are you kidding? Being cut out of someone’s life, there’s no way that can ever be painless).

Instead, he says, “Do you know what it is?”

And “Yes, Desmond, it’s a _baby_ ,” is on the tip of your tongue, a snapping retort that he doesn’t deserve but that you’re ready to say anyway.

The look on his face stops you – the optimistic sparkle in his eyes, the quirking of his lips – and you quickly realise that your fears have been for nothing and he’s not going to toss you from the temple and abandon you.

The smile on your face is relieved and you don’t even try to hide it. “No,” you tell him quietly. “I found out two days ago.”

He nods. You think he looks a little disappointed but you can’t tell him something you don’t know yourself. And now you’re wishing you _did_ know, wishing you had something to take his mind off the end of the world; baby names and clothes, possible homes in a quiet, suburban area.

You can see Desmond as a dad, you think, and he’d be good at it.

He edges closer to you, until you’re taking his hand gently in your own and drawing it close to your belly. You’re wondering if he’s imagining the same thing you are; sixth months down the line, when your bump will be obvious, when you’ll be annoyed and angry and hormonal as _fuck_ but thrilled with the little person growing inside you.

A breathless laugh is drawn from Desmond’s lips as his hand caresses your belly and it’s so odd, so out of place in the tension you’ve all been feeling lately that it startles a laugh from you too. The two of you must look strange to the others, standing half sheltered in the darkness and laughing like normal people your age, like a _normal_ couple.

“After all this,” Desmond breathes, “when all this is finished, we’ll leave. We’ll have a normal life.”

It hardly sounds possible; a normal life for two of the best assassins in the Brotherhood, a normal life away from the war, away from Abstergo. But you want to hope, you want to believe it’s possible because with him, _every_ thing seems possible.

“Yeah?” you ask and the smile that crosses his face is contagious and beautiful. “Tell me about it.”

And he does.


	4. Example [Shaun Hastings]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’ve been staring at the same spot for hours, sat here on the floor and leaning against the wall behind you. What’s the word for it again? Dissociating?_

It’s late and you can’t sleep.

Whenever you close your eyes you see that blue glow of the temple, see that podium past the towering doorway. Whenever you close your eyes you see him, silhouetted by the golden blaze of light, his hands sickeningly steady as he accepted his fate, as he made his choice.

You refuse to cry – Desmond deserves more than your tears. He deserves your strength and courage, he deserves your ability to carry on and keep fighting the impossible fight. The odds are even more stacked against you now, against the assassins, and how _can_ you keep fighting when you’re losing everyone?

Not for the first time you start to agonise over the choices that led you to that end; what could you have said to change his mind? What could you have done differently that might have changed the outcome?

It does nothing to ease your pain; all it does is provide you with more sleepless nights and bloodshot eyes.

You’ve been staring at the same spot for hours, sat here on the floor and leaning against the wall behind you. What’s the word for it again? Dissociating? You’d read about it somewhere but hadn’t paid it much attention, preoccupied as you were with the Templars hunting you down, with the Grand Temple and the impossible choices.

His footsteps are not as soft as Desmond’s had been – the thought is jarring, to think of Desmond in past tense like this, so _soon_ – and he says nothing as he slides down the wall to join you. There’s a few seconds, minutes, you’re not sure, of silence, broken only by Shaun sighing softly and reaching for your hand.

You want to tug your hand free, want to get to your feet and storm away, but you’re so tired and _sad_ and Desmond’s gone-

“Try not to think about it,” Shaun says, “it’s the last thing he would want.”

How do you know what he would want anymore, you think miserably, he’s _dead_.

“Then what do I think about instead?” you ask quietly, never tearing your eyes from that spot in front of you – a crack in the wall, unfixable and branching out in so many directions. The idea of thinking about anything else is almost unbearable but the continuous onslaught of regrets is _too much_.

His answer is blunt but lost, conveying with his words your every feeling.

“I don’t know.”

It’s so odd to hear Shaun lost for words – the historian, always with a quipped and sarcastic remark, always with an _answer_ – and the far-off look in his eyes is unnerving to you, so used as you are to the twinkle in his eyes and the condescending smirk on his face.

His smirks and quips have been so infrequent lately, replaced instead with a grief he wears plain as day, a grief you had never expected him to wear so heavily.

“I suppose,” he starts slowly, tugging gently on your hand and drawing you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, “we can only remember the good times, can’t we? No use lingering on the bad when it’s so outweighed by _good_.”

“But everything’s a mess,” you argue softly, with little of the heat that usually accompanies your words. “Desmond…”

“He wouldn’t want us to be sulking around,” Shaun says adamantly, with a squeeze to your shoulder, “and I can’t say I appreciate you doing so. On your feet. Come _on_. There’s work still to be done.”

He helps you up and keeps you upright when you stumble and sniffle, the threat of new tears more terrifying than any Templar you’ve ever faced. You’ve had enough of crying but you can’t seem to _stop_.

“Now,” Shaun murmurs, “none of that. We’ve an example to set, don’t we?” He pauses, wipes at your cheeks and tilts your chin up. “We can’t bring him back but that doesn’t mean we can’t avenge his death.”

They’re fighting words, ones you’ve rarely ever – _if ever_ – heard from Shaun. He’s killed before, you know that, but he chooses not to now; he chooses to remain behind locked doors and in the dark, searching and aiding from the shadows.

Everything’s different now.

“Desmond set the example,” Shaun says, taking you by the hand again and leading you out of the dark and into the light, “the best we can hope for is to follow it.” He squeezes your hand. “Now let’s get some food into you. You’re wasting away.”


	5. Betrayal [Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There cannot be peace without order, the Templar had told you, do you see now the folly of the assassins?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by anon-leaning-against-a-trashbin on the blog
> 
> one of my personal favourites, ngl

The sun beats hot on your back but you feel cold.

You’ve felt cold for a long time, alone and isolated by your own doing, and lonely without Altaïr by your side. He’s redeeming himself, this you know, redeeming himself in the eyes of the Mentor, but without him you’re losing yourself and forgetting all that drew you to the assassins in the first place.

You can’t remember what it was that drew you to them, what it was that made you swear your loyalty, that made you swear your vows. You’ve lost sight of the purpose of the Brotherhood and you can’t help but look upon your fellow assassins and the Mentor himself with disdain.

Perhaps it is that bitterness that halts your movements as you tail your target, as you eavesdrop on his conversation with a Templar you hadn’t expected to see. You don’t know his name, don’t care enough to try and listen for it, but his presence and words strike something within you; a curiosity about the Templar Order and their own tenants.

You think that is why you seek him out later, when he’s alone and not expecting it. You think that is why you spare his life.

“Tell me about the Templars,” you say firmly, your face blank. “Tell me what you fight for.”

* * *

“You seem troubled,” you greet casually but your head is buzzing with information, with thoughts and ideas that you shouldn’t be considering.

Altaïr appears to have not heard you at first but then he cocks his head to the side and hums.

“I am conflicted,” he tells you honestly. “With every target I eliminate, my goal becomes more unclear.”

He has been sworn to secrecy by the Mentor, you know, so you do not bother to ask him for any specifics. Instead, you join him by the fire, staring into its flames and wondering if his confliction is at all similar to your own. You sit close to one another, elbows and shoulders brushing, and his body heat is a comfort in the chilly evening air.

“I know how you feel,” you admit, but you fall silent when his inquisitive eyes swivel to you, unable to say anymore. Altaïr might have fallen far from grace but he is slowly clambering back to the top, still the most dedicated of you all, and honesty will not help you here.

“ _You_ seem troubled,” Altaïr returns and a month ago he would have been the last person in the world to care about such a thing. A month ago, he was arrogant and selfish and lost, and somehow you loved him anyway. Somehow he loved you in return.

Everything has changed now.

 _There cannot be peace without order_ , the Templar had told you, _do you see now the folly of the assassins_?

“Where are you headed next?” you ask, filling the silence and preparing your next move.

“Acre,” he tells you and he doesn’t elaborate, nor do you expect him to.

You nod once.

You must head to Damascus.

* * *

“You came,” greets the Templar, and the surprise in his voice does not match the smirk on his lips.

“I did,” you reply stonily and you keep your distance. “What more have you to tell me?”

* * *

You can see _wrong_ everywhere you look now. It plagues your thoughts, morphs your perception, and those you once called _friend_ do not seem to be any more. You simply want to be left alone now, left alone to contemplate and decide, but he always has a way of finding you when you need him.

He corners you in a dark hallway, far away from the others, and cages you in with strong arms and an even stronger gaze that freezes you even when it’s unnecessary.

“Something troubles you,” he murmurs, and you can see the storm in his eyes, the indecision, right before he leans forward and captures your lips. “What can I do to aid you?”

 _Nothing_ , you want to say, _there’s nothing you can do_.

Instead, your lips quirk and you say, “Nothing troubles me anymore – you just fixed it.”

The lie leaves a bitter taste in your mouth but it’s easy to ignore when you’re in Altaïr’s arms.

* * *

“You…” gasps your brother, clutching at his bleeding side and staring up at you, struggling to breathe in ways far different to yourself. He’s bleeding out, dying at your feet, but you’re breathless from exhilaration of the betrayal.

He spits one final word at you, “ _Traitor_.”

Your expression remains blank as you plunge your hidden blade into his throat, as the life leaves his eyes and he slumps before you.

The Templar grins. “You are ready.”

* * *

Robert de Sable is a goliath of a man, towering over you in gleaming silver armour and with eyes that rake over you in a glower. You hold his eyes, hold his scowling stare for as long as you dare to, and then the Templar beside you sidles forward and draws de Sable’s attention.

“This is the one?” de Sable asks coldly and you feel some strange satisfaction at the idea that you’ve been discussed.

The Templar nods once and scurries out of sight when dismissed, leaving you alone with the Grand Master. He eyes you critically.

“What can you offer us?” He asks and it’s now or never, you think. You’re drawing closer to the line that you ought not to cross.

“I know every one of Masyaf’s weaknesses,” you say, “and I can tell you the location of every assassin in the Brotherhood right now.”

He looks you over again and his expression has turned appraising. There’s a voice screaming at you in the back of your head, warning you that this isn’t the way, that there’s still time to go back and change what you’ve done, to fix this.

 _Altaïr can escape them_ , you think, but the thought offers little comfort. What about the others you’ve condemned by coming here?

 _They don’t matter_ , you think, _they follow a blind leader who can’t save them_.

“Your name,” says de Sable and his large height and build becomes more apparent as he comes to stand before you.

Willingly, you give it, and you feel as though you have signed your own death warrant when the man repeats it back at you, satisfied.

 _There’s no turning back now_.

* * *

You learn much under de Sable’s tutelage, more than you could have hoped to learn with the assassins, but you are plagued with thoughts of Altaïr, of his lips on yours, his hands on your face and the feel of him when he held you tightly in his arms.

 _They’ll know by now_ , you think, _or they’ll think me dead_.

You haven’t returned to them and you’ve only ever played the part of the loyal follower; why would they suspect anything? Why would they suspect you to be a traitor when you have shown them nothing but dedication and commitment?

What would you say to him, anyway? What could you say to Altaïr to make any of this better? He continues to follow an old man whose teachings have long become questionable. He continues to defend him when he leads the Brotherhood into the ground.

 _I am doing the right thing_ , you tell yourself again, standing at de Sable’s shoulder and watching the proceedings around you with critical and cold eyes.

There’s a flicker of movement in the crowd, the white of robes and a drawn hood, and dread pools in your stomach as your mouth turns to sandpaper. It can only be one person, of this you are sure, and you had hoped to have more time before you had to face him.

Your hand brushes de Sable’s arm, a silent warning, and he inclines his head to you.

“Do what you must,” he says, before he barks his orders to the soldiers around him and disappears.

Your hands shake as Altaïr steps through the crowd, silently in the way you’ve become accustomed. It’s the way you both have been taught from birth, the skills that allowed him to sneak into your room after the castle fell silent.

Those same skills allow him to keep control of his emotions and his expression when you pull down your hood.

Altaïr breathes your name, so quietly that the only evidence he said it at all is the small parting of his lips. Your hands clench into fists; how often has he done that, in the darkness of your room when it was imperative that you stay silent?

“You should leave, Altaïr,” you tell him, and you voice shakes for reasons other than fear. You can’t do this, not him, _not him_.

He says your name, stronger this time, louder, and then, “Why have you done this?”

“That does not matter,” you return. “Go now.”

“You know I cannot,” he says and your stomach lurches as you see him draw his sword. “Do not make me do this.”

You smile at him, sad and defeated, because the two of you know how this going to go. Altaïr has always been the better fighter, in all of your spars he comes out the victor. This fight will not end well for you.

But your loyalties have changed.

“It does not have to be like this,” Altaïr says, pleading and so unlike the man you remember.

“I am sorry, my love,” you murmur in return, drawing your own sword, feeling the lie behind your words, “but it was always going to come to this.”

The sun beats hot on the back of your neck and your blades clash with a resounding _clang_.


	6. Tempting [Desmond Miles & Shaun Hastings]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Desmond, really,” says Shaun, and wow, that name really matches him, you think. “You can’t force people to taste your abysmal creations.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Fuck off, Shaun,” quips Desmond. “And when have they ever been abysmal?”_

You’d think by now you’d be used to shitty days.

They seem to be occurring far too frequently, cropping up just when you think you have your shit together, and then your shitty times last the whole shitty week and _god_ but you’re sick of feeling like _shit_.

If your friends weren’t trying to _so damn hard_ to cheer you up, you’d have called it quits and disappeared home a long time ago. There’s a nice tub of Ben and Jerry’s stashed away in the back of your freezer, calling your name and begging you to give in to temptation. You’re saving it for a _real fucking mess_ of a day – one you’re sure is fast approaching – but this club is too loud, too crowded, too _everything_ and you’re _pretty fucking tempted_.

They left you at the bar ten minutes ago, quipping over their shoulders that you should cheer up because _come on_ , who’s going to want to approach you with a face like _that_?

 _That’s the point_ , you wanted to say, _I don’t want to be approached_.

You want to go home but this night out has been planned all week and how were you supposed to know your week would go as badly as it has? You can’t blame your friends for your shitty time, nor can you back out of something you’ve said for a while you’d be a part of.

(As much as you really freaking wish you can.)

Sam drunkenly stumbles to the bar, all dark hair and bright blue eyes, catching himself on a stool before he can lose his footing and collapse into a heap on the floor. You want to be amused by this, but instead you roll your eyes and reach for the glass of water on the bar in front of you. You slide it to him and watch as he guzzles it all, spilling it down his chin and collarbone.

The bartender watches him with an expression between amusement and disgust. You think it might be mirrored on your face.

“There’s a house party,” Sam slurs. “You in?”

“No,” you say flatly, steadying your friend before he can lose his grip on the stool that keeps him upright.

“ _AW_ ,” he says loudly and in your ear, forcing you back from him, “but Joanie hooked us up with the guy! She’s… she’s…” he pauses, can’t find the word and then, suddenly, he says triumphantly. “She’s fucking him!”

“Good for her,” you tell your friend indifferently.

“He’s _Italian_ ,” Sam whispers, only he doesn’t, not really, because the blond sitting on the stool next to him huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Effio, or something.”

“Good for her,” you repeat, because the blond is sharing a look with the bartender and you really just want to send him off to this party so you can _leave_. “I think I’ll pass.”

Sam slurs your name, pleadingly, but when you remain steadfast in your decision to go home, he gives up. He looks agitated though, and before he can become the angry drunk you know he is, he says, “Your loss,” and throws himself from the stool. His legs turn to jelly and he falls hard to the floor but he refuses help and you watch him disapprovingly until he’s out the door and out of sight.

 _Have fun_ , you should have said, but you’re too bitter and too tired and you wouldn’t have meant it sincerely.

“Finally,” says the blond, drawing your eyes as the bartender sets another glass of water in front of you. “I thought he would never leave.”

There’s an English accent coating his words that immediately makes them sound haughty but before you can leap to the defence of your drunken asshole of a friend, the bartender says tightly, “ _Shaun_.”

“What?” says the Englishman, Shaun. “Can’t a man begrudgingly complain about the patrons of this bar?”

“No, you can,” says the bartender, “just don’t be an asshole about it.”

“No, no,” you cut in, resigned and tired and cradling the glass set before you. “It’s fine. Sam’s an asshole anyway.”

You turn your eyes to the glass in your hands once more and a tired sigh is drawn from your lips. You should really be drinking something stronger, you think, but then it’s never just one when you feel like this, and the last thing you want is to wind up _drunk_ and _tired_. That’s never a good combination.

“You’re missing out on a good time,” the bartender says. He wipes down the surface next to you, picks up the abandoned glasses there to clean them. “ _Ezio_ throws the best parties around.”

“Oh, yes,” cuts in Shaun, “the _best_. If you like conversations with drunken delinquents.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Please, _do_.”

Their conversations draws a smile to your lips and you huff an amused laugh. It leaves just as quickly as you’re reminded of your entirely shitty life.

“I’m sure they’ll have a great time,” you say, downing the last of the water in your glass.

“You look like you need something stronger,” says the bartender and he’s already reaching for a glass and some drink before you can stop him, before you can tell him that _no_ , you really _don’t_ need a drink. What you need is your Ben and Jerry’s and your favourite film.

“Desmond, really,” says Shaun, and _wow, that name really matches him_ , you think. “You can’t force people to taste your abysmal creations.”

“Fuck off, Shaun,” quips Desmond. “And when have they ever been _abysmal_?”

Shaun starts to list names you can’t understand, one by one, until Desmond shuts him up with a smack of the sodden cloth over his shoulder.

“You’ve made your point,” he says. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, filling a cocktail glass with liquid. He mutters under his breath, “Asshole.”

“I heard that,” says Shaun and he slides onto the stool beside you. You don’t feel offended like you think you should be, don’t feel like telling him to back off, because he’s not actually invading your personal space like you imagine someone else would. He remains a good distance away to not be encroaching on your bubble but close enough for it to be companionable. “So, what brings you to this dreadful place tonight?”

“Hey,” says Desmond, sliding a glass across the bar and setting it before you. It looks delicious. “That’s my job. The bartender is supposed to listen to people’s woes. Not the jackass making sarcastic comments every two minutes.”

“Marvellous job you’re doing with that,” returns Shaun.

The drink is as delicious as it looks and while Shaun and Desmond banter back and forth, you finish it off. You immediately regret this choice – you wish you’d savoured it because _holy cow_ it was good. You start reaching for your bag, for some money to pay for this drink you didn’t ask for, and to check how much you have to pay for a taxi home.

That Ben and Jerry’s is still awfully tempting.

“Hey no,” says Desmond amiably, and his hands are warm when he grabs yours, closing your fingers around your money and pressing your hand back gently. “It’s on the house.”

“I can’t possibly –“

“You look like you’re having a real shitty day,” he says, and he doesn’t know the _half_ of it.

You tell him so, leaving out the details because just because he says he’s a bartender and it’s his job to listen to people’s woes, you really can’t stand the idea of burdening him with it. _You_ feel burdened by it; the last thing you want is someone else considering it.

“Well,” pipes up Shaun, “Desmond here knows _all_ about those kind of days. They are every day of his life.”

“Ditto,” you say, missing the sarcastic nature of Shaun’s voice and ignoring Desmond’s exasperated, “Fuck you, Shaun.”

They don’t ask about your day and you don’t tell them about it. After all, even if they’re being friendly, even if you’re enjoying their company, they’re still _strangers_ – and you’re not in the habit of talking about your personal life to people you meet in bars.

No matter how pretty or how English or how nice they are.

“But if you do change your mind about a good time,” Desmond says, “we’ll be heading out to Ezio’s later. You could join us?”

It’s not tempting in the slightest.

“Don’t be so quick to agree,” quips Shaun and your cheeks flush.

“Oh, no,” you say quickly, “that’s not what I –“ You pause and take a deep breath, starting over, calming your racing heart and hating how heated your cheeks still feel. “Thank you for the offer but I’ll pass.”

In fact, you think, starting to gather your things, it’s time for you to pass on everything. Now you _definitely_ want that tub of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer, and the best thing that will go with it is some peace and quiet.

“Alright,” says Desmond amicably. “Was worth a shot, right?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding. “I’m sorry.” The lie is easy. “I’m just really not in the mood.” The truth is easier.

“Well,” says Shaun, “I wish I had an excuse as good as _that_.”

Exasperated, you mutter, “Fuck you, Shaun,” and the words freeze Desmond’s hands where they’re reaching, curiously, for a napkin.

Shaun sighs. “Well, now I know you’ve spent too much time with Desmond.”

An apology in on your lips, stopped only by the shaking of Desmond’s head as he chuckles, scribbling on the napkin and finally sliding it across the sticky bar surface to you.

It’s his name, his full name, and number.

“In case you change your mind,” he says, “or want another free drink.”

Suddenly the idea of going to this party with these two strangers is a lot more _tempting_.


	7. Older and Wiser [Yusuf Tazim]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Yusuf stiffens. “Perhaps we should invite him to our bed,” you hear him say. When you lift your head, his smirk is as playful as your words had been. “Then we shall see who is wiser.”_

The Mentor of the Italian Brotherhood is truly phenomenal to watch at work and stunningly beautiful besides.

You’re not even ashamed of all the staring you’ve been doing since his arrival, not even ashamed of the blush that crosses your cheeks whenever he asks you a question, or praises your skill with the hook-blade. You’re not ashamed of the way you cling to his every word as he advises you on how you can improve.

“Surely he is not _that_ great,” grumbles Yusuf, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Yusuf, he is Ezio _Auditore_ ,” is your response, like it’s obvious, like he should be acting the same as every other assassin in the bureau.

“Yes,” replies the other assassin, “he is just a man.”

“He is _not_.” You sound too keen to argue with him and you are far too aggressive in your defence of the master assassin. “Surely you have heard of all his great deeds?”

“Of course I have!”

“Then how can you say he is ‘just a man’?”

His lips quirk in an impish grin. “Because it riles you up so!”

“ _Yusuf_!”

* * *

For all he seems unimpressed by the Italian Mentor, you think Yusuf spends a lot of time with him. You hardly manage to ask the Mentor your questions before Yusuf appears and whisks him away, leaving you alone and with no offer to join the two of them.

It’s _infuriating_ , really, because you want to learn too. Everyone else is learning, so why can’t you?

“I thought you were unimpressed?”

“I never said that,” replies Yusuf heartily. “I could never pass up the opportunity to work with Ezio Auditore de…”

“ _Da Firenze_ ,” you correct with an irritable frown. You cast your eyes towards the Mentor himself, at the assassins huddling around him and begging for his attention. “I thought you knew this already…?” You want to join the crowd, want to ask your questions and listen to Ezio’s well-earned advice. You think you’d be more grateful than Yusuf certainly seems to be.

“I do,” says Yusuf grumpily and his eyes are narrowed when you turn to look at him, narrowed at _you_.

“What?” you demand sulkily, turning your attention away from the Mentor and the others, away from the fawning and awe-struck initiates.

“Nothing,” returns Yusuf, equally moodily. “You are drooling.”

You wipe hastily at your mouth but find the man caught in a lie – you’re _fine_.

Yusuf’s gone when you look to where he stood.

* * *

You rarely see him for the next couple of days and it worries you.

He’s not often jealous, not quite so badly as this anyway, and while you’re sure he’s not actually _avoiding_ you so much as doing his job as Bureau Leader, part of you nags that your infatuation with the Italian Mentor might have gone too far.

Even if you cannot find Yusuf, you stray from Ezio and the other assassins, preferring your own company and idling unnecessarily as you make your way back to the Bureau from missions. Part of you hopes to wander across Yusuf, hopes that you might apologise and set things back to the way they were.

You’ve always been one to worry too much, always overthought everything when there’s nothing to trouble yourself over.

Constantinople is quiet, her streets deserted, and while you know the quickest routes back to the Bureau, you cannot bring yourself to take them. Yusuf clouds your thoughts, a shadow in the back of your mind, and you sigh tiredly as you around corners and trudge through the streets. A warm bed awaits you at the Bureau, though it always feels cold when you slide in alone.

You miss his company, his easy smiles and joyful nature, the jokes that never fail to bring a smile to your face. You hadn’t thought your teasing would affect him so badly, nor your admiration for Ezio Auditore.

You round another corner, lost in your thoughts, and don’t realise the trouble you’ve walked into until you glance up.

At first you think they haven’t noticed you, that you might sneak back the way you’d come and leave them none the wiser. Instead, because you’ve not that kind of luck, the guards choose that moment to turn. They spy you by the corner and freeze, still as stone and surprise etched on their faces, and panic pulses through you, escalated into terror as another two scamper into the street behind them.

 _Oh no_.

You know your skills and know your capabilities. This is not a fight you can win.

You spin on your heel and flee the scene, hearing their thundering footsteps giving chase as you grapple for purchase on the wall nearest you. Their shouts rise in volume as you tug yourself onto the roof, rising to your feet and sprinting over the rooftops, throwing yourself over gaps between houses and never stopping until all you can hear is your own panicked breathing and thundering heartbeat.

 _Oh jeez, that was close_.

The alley you’re hiding in is dark, nothing but shadows and yourself, and you’re so tired and terrified that you don’t even try to be quiet. None of this would have happened if you’d just taken the rooftops, if you’d just gone back to the Bureau and to Yusuf.

A hand on your arm has you shrieking and striking out, your fist catching your assailant in the shoulder until you hear the familiar shout.

Relief floods you. “Yusuf?”

“What did I do to you?” he asks jokily, rubbing his shoulder where your attack connected.

“I am sorry,” you mumble, your nerves shot to hell after your encounter. He frowns queerly, perhaps realising you mean more than just you shoddy, reflexive hit. You reach for his hand. “I am _sorry_.”

His brows pull together and he engulfs you in a large hug that you’ve _missed_. “It is I who should apologise, _sevgilim_. I have not been myself.”

“I have not helped,” you mumble into his chest, your hands clutching at his back. You’re still on edge, shaky and weary after your run-in with the guards. “I just had not expected quite so strongly a reaction from you.”

“Ezio is, ah… different,” he admits after a pause.

“Older and wiser,” you supply teasingly.

Yusuf stiffens. “Perhaps we should invite him to our bed,” you hear him say. When you lift your head, his smirk is as playful as your words had been. “Then we shall see who is _wiser_.”

You have _missed_ him.

You bite your lip, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. “I doubt he has anything on you, _aşkım_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sevgilim - my darling  
> aşkım - my love


	8. Admission [Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A shadow moves overhead, briefly silhouetted by the moon and gone in an instant. Something about the sight of it heartens you, leaving you breathless with relief and sagging against the wall._

He’d told you before, over and over, insisting always that you’re being _watched_. He tells you that you’re in danger and that it’s his wish for you to go with him, to the Bureau, where his Brothers can protect you.

“I am capable of protecting myself,” is the last thing you said to him, with an unimpressed look that he mirrored as a reply.

What a fool you are.

You’re cornered – such a _cliché_ – and they block you in, a wall of bodies wearing chain mail and a red cross, unfamiliar names on their lips that they bark at you through the fearful haze clouding your mind. You can do nothing but press your body against the firm wall at your back, your breathing growing more and more panicked as they continue to advance, prowling forward like a pack of wolves with snarls on their lips.

One reaches for you, a gloved hand that gets too close for your liking, and you lash out, batting it away and readying yourself for a fight. _I am capable of protecting myself,_ you think, the words seeming like a mockery now, and a hand thrusts forward to grasp your neck, slamming you into the wall behind you. Your gasp is terrified, your eyes watering in pain and fear, you think, but his grasp is immovable as you claw at his wrist.

Then he says a name you recognise. “Malik Al-Sayf.” Your frozen expression of recognition spurs him on. “Where is he?”

Altaïr has mentioned him to you before. “He is a brother and a friend,” he told you. “I do not deserve his help but he gives it anyway.” His scar had twitched as he fought a smirk. “Though with no little amount of complaining.”

Your silence stretches on.

“Very well,” says the man before you with an incline of his head. The metal of his glove cuts your cheek as he backhands you and your lip splits, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. “Perhaps there is another name that will encourage you.” His friends stand like spectres over his shoulders, watching silently. “Where can I find Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad?”

A shadow moves overhead, briefly silhouetted by the moon and gone in an instant. Something about the sight of it heartens you, leaving you breathless with relief and sagging against the wall. The man before you mistakes it for acceptance, you think, an understanding that your silence will be your end.

“Very well,” he repeats, dissatisfied. He leans forward, hissing in your ear, “I will slit your throat myself for this insolence. Know this.”

Altaïr moves like a ghost, emerging from the shadows and slitting throats. No sound is made until the men stagger back a step, crumble to their knees, gurgling gibberish and clutching their throats. You’re released immediately, the man’s cape brushing your legs as he whirls to survey the death.

“I think,” you croak, gingerly brushing your bruised and sore throat, “that he will slit yours first.”

Altaïr is by your side the instant it’s done, before the man’s knees have even hit the sandy ground, before the light has even left his eyes. You can see nothing but the clenching of his jaw as he looks over your injuries, your chin held in a gentle but firm grip that promises no tolerance of argument should you try to pull away and insist you’re fine.

“Perhaps the Bureau is worth looking at,” you murmur, a cheap attempt at lighting the mood and breaking this tense, insufferable silence.

Altaïr takes your hand with a terse shake of the head, leading you away from the bodies he’s left on the street and refusing to say a word.

* * *

He has no sympathy while he dabs at the cuts on your face, efficiently cleaning them without a word or a wince on your behalf. He’s been silent this whole time, kneeling next to you as you lounge on the nest of pillows, dozing tiredly.

There’s a conversation hissed in the dark room Altaïr wouldn’t let you enter before, words said with an edge and a worry, and when he returns from inside his head seems clearer. His silence had not been strange to you but the dark and thoughtful look he wore had been. You are used to his stern demeanour, after all, used to him puzzling out his problems on his own or with his brothers; it’s rare for him to voice his troubles to you, especially now when danger appears so imminent at every turn.

“Altaïr,” you murmur when he returns, settling on the cushions next to you. He slides an arm around your waist, tugging you gently closer to him, and sighs into your hair. The sound has your brows pinching together in a frown. “What troubles you?”

You never receive an honest answer when you ask, so you’ve learned not to expect one.

“Do not worry your mind over it,” he tells you. “All is well now.”

Well, you don’t believe that for a second. You take his hand in yours, entwining your fingers as you settle in to sleep, already resolving to yourself to _trust_ him. It’s not a big thing for him to want from you, it never has been, and too many nights have been spent ruminating on the regrets grown from asking.

“Will you stay here?” He asks in a quiet voice, as you’re on the cusp of sleep. “With Malik?”

Tiredly, you peer over your shoulder at him. “If it’s what you ask of me, of course I will.”

You’re not saying you’ll be happy with the decision, you admit to yourself, but you recognise its necessity. You worry just as much as he seems to that an attack like you received earlier will become a frequent occurrence.

He leans forward, his forehead pressed gently against your temple, and nods, sighing softly in what you can only describe as relief.

“I would not ask it of you if it was not necessary,” he confides. You smile contentedly and start to settle again, resting against his lean body and snuggling into the warmth that emanates from him. He’s so cold to the world, you think, but so warm to the touch.

“I know,” you tell him. “You do not have to explain yourself to me.”

Your first meeting, you reflect, he would have had to. You would have accepted nothing less than his full cooperation in return for your own. You’d wanted answers back then, back when he was telling you to remove yourself from the area before you got hurt. You’d planted your feet and insisted that you could look after yourself. You’d nearly proved it as well, when the guards had rounded the corner and found the two of you, accusations on their lips that they’d shouted aloud.

If not for Altaïr, you would have died that day.

You can hardly believe the loping steps your relationship has taken since then.

“I could not bear to lose you.”

His admission draws you back from the very edge of sleep and into awareness. A shuffle near the doorway has him stiffening almost imperceptibly, so slight that if he’d not been holding you close you’d never have noticed it.

“Nor I you,” you return softly, squeezing his hand.

He tells you he loves you when sleep has a firmer hold, when he’s sure you’ll wake up in the morning wondering if he’d truly said it or if it was a dream induced by your exhausted mind.

He’s admitted enough to you anyhow, you think, enough for you to know how he feels without having to say the words.


	9. Remember [Desmond Miles]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Imagine meeting Desmond in the Animus sometime after his death"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by Kebeo on tumblr!
> 
> one of my favs, ngl.

He stands at the end of a white stone path, in the centre of the garden the Animus has built around you.

He smiles when he sees you, standing so still and immovable despite the gentle breeze that filters through the trees. It doesn’t appear to bother him; he doesn’t look away from you as you slowly approach, your mouth forming words that you can’t find the voice nor strength to say. He kisses you soundly, taking the words from you anyway, and you’re overwhelmed and overjoyed and he’s _alive_ and how can this be?

Rebecca says your name, her voice an echo in the bright and clear blue sky. “Sorry,” she’s saying, and Desmond’s scar twitches as he starts to smile. “We’re having some technical issues – it’ll only take a second to fix!”

“We don’t have long then,” Desmond says, stealing another kiss from your lips. You’re reminded painfully of the last bittersweet kiss before he pushed you away, before Shaun took your arm and urged you from that room, before Desmond turned his back on you for the last time.

Rose petals dance along your shoes with the wind; Desmond brushes your disturbed hair back from your face – he feels so _real_ , so warm under your hands, so _strong_. You wish you could wake and see him sitting by your side, wish that this isn’t the Animus building a scene from your memories. Desmond doesn’t look tired in this garden, not like he did near the end; tired of bearing the weight of the world and all its responsibility.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, burying your face against his neck. He smells like you remember too, of sweat and that ridiculously expensive aftershave Shaun always kept on him that Desmond used to steal in the mornings. There are no other words you can say, nothing else that can sneak past the lump that clogs your throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“This was my choice,” Desmond tells you. A finger hooked under your chin tilts your head back until your teary eyes meet his. He repeats, more firmly than before, more insistently, “It was my choice.”

“There was another choice,” you choke out. The sky fizzles, turns to grey. “There was another way.”

“No, there wasn’t.” He pauses, pulls you closer and hugs you tighter. “You know that.”

The choice was impossible, a decision that should never have been forced onto one man’s shoulders. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, tucks your head under his chin and squeezes you tightly in his embrace, like nothing has changed. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve seen him since he died, like he never died at all.

“Okay,” Rebecca says, “we should be good to go…”

“Is she _crying_?” Shaun, closer than you remember, as if he’s demanding the answer from right at your ear. “What on Earth is she seeing in there?”

You hear a clatter, a smashing of glass and footsteps making a hasty retreat. Desmond winces, plays with your hair that’s tangled in his fingers, and rubs soothing circles on your back.

“You gotta look after them,” he murmurs, “you all gotta look after each other.”

“We need you,” you manage to choke out. “You were holding us all… We can’t do this without…”

“You have to.”

Rebecca says your name, hesitantly and unsurely, and Desmond starts to pull back. You grip him tighter, shaking your head against him, begging for just a few seconds more. He sighs, holds you tighter, inhales deeply.

“The Animus has stabilised,” he tells you. “You can’t stay here.”

He wipes your tears and kisses your forehead, adjusts your coat and scarf; he does it all without complaint, does it all because you’re a sobbing mess barely holding it all together.

“At least this time I get to say goodbye,” Desmond says quietly, with one last kiss.

You can still feel it on your lips when you sit up from the Animus hours later.


	10. Teacher [Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You roll your shoulders and reach for a weapon, plastering a cocky smirk on your face and parrying the first sword. Their shouts melt into each other until it’s just one big noise, shrieking in your ears as you try to concentrate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by rooks-and-blighters on tumblr!

He preaches patience like it’s a religion and ignores your constant sighs of irritation like a pro.

It’s almost hard for you to believe that  _this_ man,  _your_ Mentor,  _the_ Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad, is the same man you’ve heard in all the stories. How many novices expressed their jealousy to you? How many novices told you all the stories of your Mentor’s great deeds? How many novices expressed their envy that you’d be killing targets before the year is up? 

How you wish you could find them all and tell them how wrong they are.

He speaks very little of the mission given to him by Al Mualim and often leaves you in the bureau to fulfil the mission alone. It’s not that you don’t _like_ Malik – you actually prefer him to the others leaders your Mentor leaves you with – it’s just that he’s too stern and _angry_ for your liking, reluctant to listen to Altaïr wishes but all too happy to keep you in the bureau until your Mentor returns.

He scoffs under his breath about _novices_ and keeps an eye on you even when you’re in another room.

It’s _infuriating_.

“You are my _Mentor_ ,” you’d finally snapped one day, following Altaïr through the gates of Damascus and gripping tight the reins he’d handed you. “You are supposed to be –“

“I _am_ your Mentor,” he’d retorted, sharper than usual. “You do not order me.”

The ride back to Masyaf had been tense.

Your Mentor clambers into the bureau silently and gracefully, blood and dust on his robes in equal measures, and you stumble to your feet, questions on your lips that he dismisses with a wave of his hand. He removes a single white feather from his belt, its bristles tipped in crimson, and stops you from following him.

 _I should have been there_ , you think glumly, eyes on his back as he disappears into the shadows by the door. _He should have been teaching me_.

Sunlight streams into the bureau from the entrance overhead, bringing with it an idea.

With a quick glance towards the doorway, towards a heated discussion between two disgruntled and old friends, you turn on your heel and quickly climb out into the streets of Jerusalem.

* * *

You don’t have a target or a location, only a budding idea that _really_ , now that you’re out here and alone, is _not_ a good one.

But you can _do_ this, can prove to Altaïr and Malik that you deserve the time and effort, that you’re _more_ than just a clueless _novice_.

Your idea might not be brilliant but that’s not going to stop you. Your Mentor _will_ take you seriously if it’s the last thing you do.

There are no targets that you’re familiar with, no one you can really strike down that will have a lasting effect like you want, so you settle instead for a couple of city guards, hovering near a beggar woman and laughing at her. Her voice is little more than a croak, her dress ripped and tattered, and their words are jibes and taunts and insults that get your back up.

No one will miss them.

Your leap of faith is sloppy and _loud_ , drawing eyes and whispers, but to you it’s _perfect_ , the envy of Master Assassins everywhere. To you, it’s better than your Mentor’s ever could be, and it’s a shame he isn’t here to see it.

The two guards are still taunting the poor woman when you sneak up behind them, catching one around the throat while burying your hidden blade in the neck of the other. It’s quick and simple and easy and so _elegant_ and Altaïr will be _so_ proud of you, singing your praises –

“Stop, assassin!”

Any thoughts of your Mentor are scattered to the wind as your heart plummets to your stomach – you understand now why Altaïr preaches _patience_ so damn much. If you’d been _patient_ like he’s taught you (one of the _only_ lessons he seems to have taught you and _only_ because he’s recently been taught it _himself_ ) you would have seen the other guards patrolling.

Your panic dissolves into determination; you’re still adamant that your Mentor will see your skill. You roll your shoulders and reach for a weapon, plastering a cocky smirk on your face and parrying the first sword. Their shouts melt into each other until it’s just one big noise, shrieking in your ears as you try to concentrate.

You don’t even hear him when he joins the fray, sword unsheathed and the blade catching the light. The cries of the soldiers he strikes down are turned into strangled gargles as his hidden blade embeds in their throats. When he catches your eye in the chaos, he looks furious – angrier, you think, than when he found out you were still his apprentice despite his demotion to the same rank as you.

Apparently any headway you’ve been making with him has been lost. The thought curdles your stomach and makes you regret what you’ve done for a split second, but you quickly dismiss it, too caught up in your actions to think that this isn’t what you intended. It’s all going _exactly_ to plan, you tell yourself, he’s just overreacting.

He catches your arm in the breathing space as the guards stagger and struggle around you, reaching for weapons thrown from their hands.

“Move,” he orders in a low hiss. You can just see his eyes in the shadow of his hood, fiery and furious, and your immediate response is to roll your eyes.

“No,” you say, wrenching your arm free. “We are winning.”

“You compromise the Brotherhood,” snaps your Mentor and your heart skips a beat. “You break the Tenants of the Creed.”

When he urges you onwards again, you don’t argue.

* * *

He doesn’t stop running until the shouts of the city guards are far behind you, until there’s some peace and quiet and brilliant sunlight overhead, burning into your back like the shame that burns your cheeks.

You could be _killed_ for this, for breaking a Tenant of the Creed. Altaïr was _demoted_ but you hardly hold such value to Al Mualim that he might feel the need to make an example of you. If your Mentor reports this to Al Mualim…

“I am sorry, Mentor,” you say, breaking the quiet and braving his rage. He’s pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I knew there was a reason Al Mualim assigned you to me,” says Altaïr. “We are too alike.”

Perhaps you were before, you think to yourself reasonably, when your Mentor was willing to bend the rules – _break_ the rules – to suit his own ends, to reaffirm his status as Al Mualim’s golden pupil, but now you can’t see it. Altaïr has _grown_ into a different man entirely, wiser and humbler, and he’s done it without you.

“Malik thinks I have done wrong by you.”

 _You have_ you nearly say, feeling prickly now as your wariness wares off. He appears your Mentor has not tired of you just yet. “Why would that be, Mentor?”

“The lessons I have learned to better myself, I have not shared them with you as I should have,” he says softly, stopping his pacing to fix you with a firm and patient stare. The comments you’ve been overhearing from the other bureau leaders suddenly make so much more sense now – this is _not_ the same man who waltzed into Solomon’s Temple and brought destruction to Masyaf’s doorstep.

“I had hoped you might have left,” he admits after a moment, “and tried to find another life for yourself. Far away from Masyaf and the Assassins.”

You shake your head, feeling lost. “I do not know any other life, Mentor,” you say, your voice echoing how baffled your feel.

Where would you have gone that the Assassins would not have found you anyway? The penalty for abandoning the Creed and the Brotherhood is death – they would hunt you until your death. You wring your hands together, casting your eyes over the sandy rooftops of the city.

“I _am_ sorry, Mentor,” you say again, and you cannot meet his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything to acknowledge your words but there’s an unfamiliar gentleness to his expression – it’s fleeting and gone in a second as he looks away. He clenches his jaw and stares at the city; there’s something he isn’t telling you, something he appears conflicted about telling you.

“The path I tread is dangerous,” he says softly, avoiding your eyes. “I would not draw you into it ill-prepared for the consequences.”

“I’ll only be ill-prepared because you refuse to teach me,” you reply, your tone gentle but unable to hide the bite in your voice.

He concedes your point with a nod and gestures for you to follow him back to the bureau. Malik mutters venomously about _novices_ as Altaïr leads you into the dark room you’ve never been allowed to enter.


	11. Words [Ezio Auditore]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You could go back…_
> 
> _But it would mean a life of unhappiness, of being courted by a man who’s not Ezio. Of breaking your engagement to Ezio for a man who’ll do nothing but make you unhappy for the rest of your life._

You’re humming quietly to yourself, a tune with a name you can’t remember but a distracting melody, enough to turn your thoughts away as you robotically pack clothes into a bag. Breeches and dresses and shirts and boots, you shove them all in, creased and folded alike, tying off the rucksack when you’re sure you’ve packed everything you’ll need to find him.

“We have eyes and ears all over _Venezia_ ,” was the last thing he’d said to you. “If you do not find me, I will find you.” He’d kissed your forehead and bid you good night, his warmth lingering as he left you alone in your bed. “Be safe, _bella_.”

There had been an underlying worry that your tired brain had heard; the memory of it haunted you through the next day and into the evening. What danger could you be in here, in _Venezia_ , of all places?

You hadn’t meant to tell them; the words had slipped out when your mother brought up the son of a business associate of your father’s.

“Such a lovely young man,” she simpered, while you resolutely stared at your plate of untouched food. “Very well to-do, as well.”

“ _Mother_ ,” you’d protested quietly, while your father sipped from his goblet of wine and pondered.

“What a match it would be,” he said after a few quiet moments, nodding to your mother his approval. “Perhaps it would be in our best interests to invite them to dinner.”

Your mother was practically giddy, bouncing in her seat at the prospect of having finally found a worthy courter for you. “We’ll have to buy you a new dress,” she started voicing aloud, “and a new hair net-“

“There is nothing wrong with the ones I have,” you complained, all but slamming your fork onto your plate. “He will simply have to accept them.”

Your mother continued as if she hadn’t heard you. “Of course, I’ll do all the talking. You’re so _serious_ , _cara_ , ever since we left _Firenze_ …”

“I do not want to court _any_ one,” you remember adamantly saying, in as polite a voice as possible. Your cold stare had done nothing to chill your father’s heated glower. “Whatever help this match will be, whatever it will do to strengthen _ties_ , find another way.”

“Listen here, young lady.” He sat up straighter, pointing one finger at you and resting an elbow on the table. “I do not care for this _attitude_ you have. You will remove it at once or I will become cross.”

 _Or I will become cross_ – how those words used to frighten you to do as he wished years ago.

“This _attitude_ ,” you snapped, “is simply a reluctance to do something that will not make me happy.”

Your mother scoffed. “What a silly notion,” she commented with a laugh. The liquid inside her wine goblet sloshed as she cradled it in her hand. Your eyes were drawn then to the distance between your parents; your father on one end of the table, your mother on the other, and you, in the middle but feeling farther apart from both of them than possible.

“Yes,” you sighed, rolling your eyes and readying yourself to leave. “What a silly notion.”

“You have not been excused,” said your father. The sweeping gesture he made with his hand knocked over the wine goblet, spilling the dark red fluid over the white tablecloth. “We are not finished.”

“You have hardly touched your food,” commented your mother.

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Your appetite has been scarce since our arrival,” added your father, “since my decision to leave _Firenze_.”

Your mother set her wine goblet on the table, sighing malcontentedly. “This is about that boy, isn’t it?”

Your father’s thick brows pulled together in a frown unhappily. “I thought we had left this discussion in _Firenze_ ,” he snapped. “I do not approve, nor will I ever.”

You rolled your eyes. “We do not need nor wish _for_ your approval.”

He blinked, your words registering horrifying slowly as you realised just what you’d said. Your mother gasped absurdly loudly, the wooden legs of her chair scraping across the floor as she rose, following your father. He was murderous, rounding the table and making towards where you stood.

“An _assassino_!” he roared and you flinched; you love Ezio but mention of his profession even still causes you discomfort. “A murderer! The son of a traitorous _bastardo_!”

“Giovanni was innocent,” you returned quickly, the defence second nature. “They _all_ were –“

“Foolish girl,” your mother scolded gently. She reached for you, hands cupping your jaw, imploring. “His words are poisoned lies, said to turn you against us.”

“Innocent,” you father repeated, “I’m sure the men the _assassino_ has killed will not be so quick to agree!”

“Those men –“

 _They deserved it_ , Ezio had told you. Part of a plot to see the Auditore’s brought to ruin, a plot that had worked.

“It was bad enough when the _assassino_ was in _Firenze_ ,” your father thundered, “now he has the gall to follow us to _Venezia_!”

Nothing you said to argue was heard – Ezio had not come to _Venezia_ for _you_ , after all, but rather for his work. His meeting you here was a stroke of coincidence that benefitted both of you. It was luck, and Ezio’s skilled charm, that saw him escorting you quite often on your errands and walks.

Your foot slips as you step onto the roof outside your window, very nearly sending your careening down the tiles and onto the street below. It would be a quick and painful way of getting to where you want to go, granted, but would also see you making a quick trip to the doctor, a trip that would likely leave you returning to your parents.

 _Venezia_ ’s streets are quiet this late, leaving you plenty of time to clamber down the wall and to the ground. No one witnesses your magnificent feat of agility; there are no guards to stop you sneaking out of the quiet courtyard. There are more trailing unhappily through the streets as you hurry away, but they are tired and grumpy and paying no heed to their surroundings.

You haven’t the faintest idea where to even _start_ looking for Ezio, nor are you keen to remain alone on the streets this late. You remember bumping into a painter friend of his while you were out walking, your arm hooked in Ezio’s elbow; what _was_ his name? Do you even remember where Ezio said he lived? Would he even help you if you showed up, announced, at this late hour?

“Oh, this was a mistake,” you lament, turning a corner and wringing your hands together. “This was a mistake.”

You can’t go back, not now. You’ve come too far, made too much a point to go back. Granted, they don’t _know_ about your point yet; they’re fast asleep and won’t realise you’re gone until morning. You _could_ go back…

But it would mean a life of unhappiness, of being courted by a man who’s not Ezio. Of breaking your engagement to Ezio for a man who’ll do nothing but make you unhappy for the rest of your life.

The water is still as you lean against the wall, your hastily packed bag slipping from your fingers and to the ground. Frustrated tears sting your eyes and you drop your head into your hands, your whole body slumping against the cold stone as you groan quietly, lost and weary and so _tired_.

“ _Dolcezza_?” The voice is unfamiliar at first, tugging at your memory as you look over your shoulder. You recall a brief meeting – an _associate_ of mine, Ezio had said.

“La Volpe,” you breathe, standing straighter, wiping your eyes hastily.

He steps closer, the top half of his face shadowed by his hood. “What has happened? Where is Ezio?”

“I hoped you could tell me.” You pause, bending to grab your bag. “Something has happened.”

He’s ever the courteous gentleman, keeping a polite distance so as to not make you uncomfortable. The master thief even refuses to take the money you offer him, what little of it you’ve managed to lift from home.

“Volpe,” Ezio cries upon greeting. There’s a surprised grin on his face but his delight quickly turns to confused concern when he spies you entering beside him. He breathes your name, striding towards you and taking your hands, looking you over for injury. “ _Amore_ , what has happened?”

“Not here,” you murmur, with a slight shake of the head. “Thank you, Volpe,” you say to the thief. “I am in your debt.”

“No need for that,” returns the thief. “Simply keep our _assassino_ out of trouble and we shall be even.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Ezio wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close as he leads you away from the people gathering; they side-eye you warily, whispering behind their hands.

“Ignore them,” Ezio murmurs. The embrace he tugs you into behind the closed door is warm and reassuring, exactly what you need. “Now, _amore_ , what has happened?”

The words try to tumble out of your mouth all at once, a mess on unintelligible words mixed with sobs and snotty, less than beautiful tears, and it’s a miracle he understands you at all.

“ _Tesoro_ ,” he murmurs. “ _Amore_ , they will not find you here.” He kisses your forehead again, pulls you in close until you’re sobbing openly against his chest and staining his shirt. “I will keep you safe, you have my word.”

“I cannot go back there,” you murmur into his chest. “I _cannot_.”

“Nor would I have you,” replies the assassin simply, confidently. “I am more than capable of looking out for the both of us, I think.”

“I hope so,” you reply. “My father is a powerful man.”

Ezio smirks. “And I am an _assassino_. _Nessun problema_.”

You shoot him a stern look. “Ezio,” you say firmly. He humours you, lips pressed into a hard line as he looks at you. “Every guard in _Venezia_ will be after you.”

He shrugs and waves off your concern nonchalantly. “They already are, _amore_ , we have nothing to fear.”

You have _everything_ to fear, you think, but Ezio’s indifference to the situation is infectious. It lures a smile to your lips, grants you a chaste and cheerful kiss from your fiancé, and eases your present fears enough for him to lead you towards the bed in the corner.

“You should rest, _amore_ ,” he insists, guiding you towards the bed. He pushes gently at your shoulders until you sit and you watch his long and nimble fingers deftly unlace your boots and slowly tug them from your feet. “Let me ease your fears.”

You swallow, heart in your throat as he places a kiss to your ankle. “I thought you said there was nothing to fear?”

He grins against your leg, impish, playful, the young man you remember from _Firenze_. “There isn’t,” he tells you. He rises, hands on your hips, his lips a hairsbreadth away from your own. His hands work their way under your shirt, his skin hot against yours as his thumbs trace circles on your skin, calming. “There won’t ever be so long as you’re with me. I promise.”

He seals his promise with a scorching kiss and ever skilful hands and uses more than words to prove himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
>  
> 
> Bella – beautiful / cara – dear / dolcezza – sweetheart / tesoro – darling / Nessun problema – no problem


	12. Passing Over [Ezio Auditore]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No one else can see him, this spectre that haunts the villa’s grounds and rooms, doing little to disturb the life here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another halloween '16 fic! this time you're being haunted by Ezio Auditore, congrats!

He’s so out of place in the villa now, out of place against the modern improvements to what he’s reliably informed you was his home for thirty years of his life.

No one else can see him, this spectre that haunts the villa’s grounds and rooms, doing little to disturb the life here. You’re not sure why _you_ can see him, this Italian lothario with his strange robes and weapons, but in the months since your first conversations, an unlikely partnership has formed.

Ezio, he introduced himself as, all those months ago, does not want to be here anymore than you’re sure your family do, and he’s promised not to disturb the peace so long as you help him find a way to _pass over_. You’ve never helped a ghost _pass over_ before; you’re not familiar with anything remotely supernatural in the slightest. You’re not even sure if you can help him at all.

What you _are_ sure of is that you’re not ready to say goodbye to Ezio.

No _way_.

You’ve read enough cheesy romance novels to know there’s no way this can end well for you. Life doesn’t have happy endings like novels and movies and tv shows. Ezio won’t come back to life and you can’t kill yourself to be with him forever; he wants to _go_ , wants to _die_. You won’t kill yourself and anchor him to life forever, anchor him to a world he’ll never truly be a part of.

So, you swallow your feelings and scour the internet, trying to ignore the coolness of his breath against your neck as he reads over your shoulder. You shouldn’t be able to _feel_ any of this; you shouldn’t be able to imagine his body heat against your back, shouldn’t be imagining leaning back against him, cradled in his arms like something to be treasured.

“ _Tesoro_?” he asks, his breath cool against your ear, closer than he’s ever been to you before. If this was _normal_ , if any of this was _ordinary_ , you could turn your head and press your lips to his. “Anything?”

( _Can_ you? You haven’t tried it at all; what if you try and go right _through_ him? _That_ would be embarrassing.)

“Nothing,” you reply on a sigh, turning your head away before he can see the flush creeping up your neck and warming your cheeks. “Maybe you could try thinking about your death again? That might trigger something.”

“I told you I don’t remember it well,” Ezio says. He sounds agitated, throwing himself away from your small desk and pacing the length of your room again. “ _Cazzo_! We are getting nowhere.”

You run your hands through your hair, pushing away from the desk and turning in your chair. “What _do_ you remember?”

His brow pinches in thought. “The Borgia,” he says angrily. Your lips purse as you begin to type the name in the search bar; you’ve only ever heard the name once before, briefly touched over in history class. It can’t be the same, can it?

“The Borgia,” you repeat sceptically. “ _The_ Borgia?”

“ _Sì_ ,” replies Ezio. He adjusts the crimson sash wrapped around his waist, rubbing his hand over the scruff along his jaw. “It sounds –“

“Rodrigo Borgia became the _Pope_ ,” you tell him, frowning. “Are you _sure_ –“

“You are right,” sighs Ezio, though you think you hear some distress in his voice. “It cannot be.”

“No, that’s not what I –“

“It does not matter.” He sounds insistent now, angry even. “Let it go, _tesoro_.”

“But it might –“

“ _Lasci perdere_!”

The loudness of his voice makes you jump, your heart hammering against your rib cage. He’s never yelled at you like this before, never taken his frustration out on you so severely. He wants you to help him, doesn’t he? What is it about the Borgia that troubles him so?

Ezio refuses to look at you for some time, appearing to become more and more troubled as time goes on. Finally, he mutters, “ _Mi dispiace_ ,” and disappears.

* * *

You spend the rest of the evening and most of the night reading up on the Borgia, sure you’ve found some sort of lead even if Ezio won’t pursue it.

Every time you close your eyes you see the portraits you found on the internet; the grey-haired Rodrigo with the unreadable look in his eyes, the beautiful blonde Lucrezia with her jewels and elegant gowns and the dark-haired Cesare with the malicious smirk that gives you chills even now.

Something isn’t _right_ about all this.

Google only offers you so much knowledge and nothing reveals to you anything about a connection to Ezio Auditore. A quick search of Ezio’s name yielded _no results_ anyway, a shame and a mystery you think, because Ezio’s told you everything there is to know about this villa, about Monteriggioni, about the people here who loved his family.

Your sigh is aggravated and tired, your shoulders slumped with your failure, and you trudge slowly towards your bed, rubbing your arms against the sudden onslaught of _cold_ in your room. You’re used to cold now, used to near hugs from Ezio after particularly troubling days – he’s _dead_ , he’s not exactly going to be _warm_ – but this is below _freezing_ now, so cold you can see your breath misting in front of your face.

Your eyes dart towards the window – closed. You see his reflection in the glass pane and scream a second too late.

He’s tall, almost Ezio’s height, with waves of dark hair you recognise from the dozens of portraits you’ve spent the last view hours looking through. Pain shoots up your spine as you collide harshly with the wall, knocking over paintings and books as you tumble to the floor. Your screams are swallowed by sobbing gasps of pain as the room spins around you.

Your attacker is gone when you look up, one hand pressed to your temple as you try to soothe the dizziness you feel. You hear him laughing, feel fingers dancing over your shoulder blades as you shudder, your eyes glassy with tears.

 _Ezio_ , you think, you _plead_. _Ezio_ , _where_ are _you?_

“Come out, come out,” crows Cesare Borgia. “Come out _Assassin_.”

A boot knocks you against the wall and a hand grips your throat before you can catch your breath, dragging you upwards and off your feet, pressing you against the pale wall of your bedroom. You claw at a cold wrist, too panicked and terrified to realise that you can touch him at all, and your vision has begun to darken at the edges before Ezio returns to your room.

He takes in the slight with furious eyes, the gauntlets on his arms sprouting forth blades that glint in the moonlight. Cesare drops you without further consideration when Ezio roars his name; something about their encounter screams that they’ve done this before. You don’t know where or when but it all seems _familiar_.

Their strengths are matched, the fight fierce, and your throat burns as you cough, leaning helplessly against the wall and curled in on yourself, keeping as far away from the ghosts as possible.

“You made a mistake coming here, Cesare,” Ezio says. “This ends _now_.”

“This ended when I killed you, _assassino_ ,” snaps back Cesare. Your eyes go wide at his words; your eyes are wide and startled, disbelief burning in them. Ezio, _your_ Ezio, an _assassin_? It can’t _be_. “And now I will do it again.” His smile is cruel and malicious, every bit like you imagined it would be when you found that first portrait online. “But first I will start with your little pet.”

Ezio shouts your name, desperation lacing his words, and your blood thunders in your ears as Cesare Borgia’s sword goes straight for your neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tesoro - darling  
> Cazzo - fuck  
> Lasci perdere! - let it go!  
> Mi dispiace - I am sorry.


	13. Bloody Footprints [Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s blood around his mouth, smeared down his chin and neck. He looks at you then, a helpless fury alight in his eyes. You realise you’re looking your death in the face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a fic written around halloween '16, so _extremely_ AU.

The first thing you see is the _blood_.

It’s everywhere as soon as you push open the door; streaked across walls, dripping from the ceiling, pooled on the floor. The first body you find is that of old Mrs Nicolson from across the hall, slumped against the kitchen door with a gouging hole in her neck that’s still oozing blood.

 _She’s always been a nosy one_ , you hate yourself for thinking and you’re not sure what it is that forces you to keep moving, that forces you to step around the blood around her.

It doesn’t matter how careful you are, in the end, because your shoes still leave bloody prints on the once cream carpet. You find your roommate stretched across the sofa, eyes staring listlessly into nothing and blood across her front and matted in her hair. You find her friends littered around the room, beer in their hands and spilled across the floor, lit joints still in their hands.

Part of you knows you shouldn’t be investigating this yourself. Part of you is _screaming_ at you to call the police _now_. Somehow it’s smothered by a curiosity, a curiosity that grips you tight and encourages you to follow the line of bodies into the hallway towards the bedrooms.

Bodies are strewn everywhere; slumped against the wall and against doors, all with their throats ripped out and their blood dark against their pale skin. You step cautiously over them, worrying almost that they’ll try to reach for you, that they’ll begin to move and rise again like zombies, and your movements are slower still when you come across the only closed door in your flat.

It’s unbearably clean compared to the others, a temptation you wish you could resist. How easy it should be for you to leave this flat, for you to turn your back on this horror and call the police.

Instead, you reach out your hand and slowly push open the door.

It’s your room, with everything untouched and perfect, exactly the way you left it. It shouldn’t be like this, shouldn’t be so untouched with everything that’s happened through the rest of your flat. Over your shoulder, you can see a couple of your roommate’s friends, tangled in each other and lying half out of the room opposite you. The woman’s pale blonde hair is darker with their blood, her head tucked under his chin in a cruel, horrific last embrace.

He’s silent when your eyes find him, completely out of place in the centre of your room. Your neighbour from upstairs, the quiet one you’ve spoken to only a few times in passing. What was his name again…?

“Altaïr,” a voice says behind you. It startles you, reminds you of the danger you’ve walked into, and you’re a deer trapped in headlights between these two men; a man you don’t know or recognise, and the quiet the neighbour from upstairs who you bothered once to borrow sugar. “Finish it.”

You notice then the defeated slump to his shoulders, the dejected look on his face, but your concern is swallowed by the fear you feel at seeing the blood that stains his white hoodie crimson.

“You… did this?”

The mere thought of it makes you nauseous, makes you question every little remark passed between the two of you. You recall a late night in the elevator, Mrs Nicolson’s scathing remarks about the downstairs lobby filling what should have been a comfortable silence. You remember catching Altaïr’s eye, remember the looks shared between the two of you; annoyance, frustration, fatigue and, finally, a quiet laugh that went unnoticed behind the old woman’s back.

What is it they say? _Watch out for the quiet ones_.

His eyes are shielded by his hood, his whole body a silhouette in the darkness of your room, and what you wouldn’t give to be able to see his eyes, to see the multitude of emotions you _know_ must be going through them. The man you met in the elevator, on the stairs, in the lobby _cannot_ be capable of this.

“Altaïr,” says the man again. His hair is pepper gray like his beard; there’s a wisdom and cruelty to him that makes your words freeze in your throat. He stands in the doorway in a sleek grey suit, hands at his sides; in one, you think you see a gold orb, glowing oddly. Altaïr can’t seem to look away from it, a frown turning down his lips; you realise then that whoever this man is, he has something to hold over your neighbour, something dangerous and powerful.

“Altaïr.” You can only describe the way you say his name as a whimper. There’s blood around his mouth, smeared down his chin and neck. He looks at you then, a helpless fury alight in his eyes. You realise you’re looking your death in the face.

Saying his name again does nothing to slow him as he walks – _stalks_ ; there’s no other way to describe it – towards you. You’re not sure if you’re imagining it, not sure if your fear is throwing your panic into overdrive, but you think he’s watching your neck, watching your _pulse_ that’s thundering in your ears.

The man behind you says, “Don’t take all night,” and turns to leave.

You watch him go, watch him slip the glowing, golden orb into his pocket, and when you look back at Altaïr, his eyes are black.


	14. Owls and Eagles [Ezio Auditore]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He is the eagle and you are the owl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little drabble that I really like so i'm posting it here too!

He is the eagle and you are the owl.

He is a guardian and a liberator; he hides in plain sight and saves the weak from their oppressors, he draws a blade and stalks readily into a fight. He fights even still, though he is tired and weak and recovering from injury, and he’s wary and angry of all who approach him. His hands do not shake and he shows no fear, only a downward twist of his lips and a clenching of his fists to any who dare to try to come near. Letters to his allies have gone unanswered, a quarrel between your Mentor and his creating a barrier that prevents understanding.

He is the eagle, the Auditore _Assassino_ , and you are the owl, perched on the window sill and waiting patiently still.

You are the last to enter this room, the last to take up the challenge so many others have abandoned.

“ _It is useless_! _He will not see reason_!”

He’s pale and bleeding still, wounds reopened from his earlier attempt to leave before he was able. He’s sweating despite the cool air drifting in through the open window at your side, the beginnings of a fever you think, but not once has he let his guard down around you.

“We are not enemies,” you murmur. His eyes flit towards you tiredly. He hardly appears to see you as you rise from your perch and cross the room to his side. His sigh is soft, an exhale of breath that’s as much a defeat as a victory. He doesn’t fight your hand against his forehead and grants you the soothing action of running your hand through his damp hair.

You are the owl, wisdom and grace, and he is the eagle, power and freedom.

You are the owl, the protector of the guardian, and he is the eagle, content to let you.


	15. Eagles and Medjay [Bayek]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last Medjay is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little finger stretcher (I seriously mean little, it's like 300 words, not even a drabble more like a blurt) after the gameplay trailers and stuff shown at E3. I love him already i'm not sorry.

His return is heralded by a flutter of feathers and a bloodied sky.

Senu is perched on the sill, too intelligent eyes watching you as you rise slowly; it’s been _years_ since you’ve seen her, Bayek’s beautiful companion and battle ally. He’d told you once that their connection was much deeper than simply master and pet, that it ran far _deeper_ than any relationships Bayek had with anyone, even with _you_. His words had drawn a scoff from you and an indulgent, disbelieving smile, but seeing her here without him you can’t help but wonder if there’s _some_ truth to his words.

Senu shifts under your curious stare, adjusting glossy, large wings as she turns. She blinks once in your direction, waits until you’ve crossed the room to her, until your fingers brush one sleek feather-

She bats her wings and swoops towards the ground, disturbing the sand on your sill and your sleep-mussed hair, her large wingspan made all the more impressive as she fully spreads her wings and _soars_ in the glowing light of the rising sun. Your fingers curl against the spot where she stood, gently tracing the claw marks she’s left in her departure. They’re shallow and no larger than your thumbnail, easily fixed; you doubt you’ll even recall their existence by the end of the night.

Your head jerks towards her when you hear her cry, loud and sharp and _musical_ and close, so close, and it’s as if the world has slowed to a stand-still when you finally see her. Your heart beats frantically against your ribcage and pounds in your ears, louder than the closest thunder as you watch her adjust on his arm, tucking her wings close to her and returning that piercing, curious gaze to you again.

His name is a whisper on your lips, the same it had been when he’d left that last time- _Bayek, don’t go. Bayek…_

The last Medjay, home at last.


	16. Unrequited [Desmond Miles]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrequited love: the worst kind of affliction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the prompts were: “I can’t stand the thought of losing you.” and “This is why I fell in love with you.”

‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’ Shaun asks. He crosses the room to you, and stands at your side in front of the window. ‘Being left behind.’ 

‘Yes.’ It’s raining in New York, a sheet of grey hanging over the city. ‘Horrible.’

‘He’ll be back. You’ll see.’

You swallow, and nod mutely in reply. Your stomach refuses to settle, just like your nerves, and sitting for longer than a couple of minutes is impossible. The four hour mark is fast approaching and there has been no contact yet, nothing to reassure you that all is well. 

Shaun strides back to his desk and to his research. Rebecca tinkers with the Animus in the corner, and you hear whispers but not their words; your reflection in the glass pane is decidedly unimpressed by their attempt at discretion. 

‘I’m fine,’ you tell them.

Shaun clears his throat, says haughtily, ‘Well then,’ and seconds later you hear the quiet clicking of the keys on his laptop. 

‘They’ll be here soon,’ Rebecca tells you from the Animus. ‘Have a little faith.’

Another wordless nod. Rebecca returns to her tinkering. Shaun continues to type. You continue to watch.

It’s not so simple for you as it is for them. What little distraction you might be able to gain is quickly distorted by imaginings of Desmond and Lucy, out there in the rain. Is it envy or worry? You can’t tell, but either one twists you into knots and ruins your concentration. 

It also makes your infatuation with Desmond entirely too obvious.

‘It’s just curiosity,’ doesn’t fly anymore. Shaun and Rebecca - maybe even  _Lucy_ , heaven forbid - know exactly why you’re so interested in him, and it has nothing to do with the potential of his lineage. 

‘It’s  _loooooooove_ ,’ crowed Rebecca in a low voice, after you’d watched jealously as Desmond left the room, trailing after Lucy. 

‘Shut  _up!’_

It  _is_  love, that’s what so frustrating. Unrequited love, at that: the worst kind of affliction. If he doesn’t return, it will destroy you. It will break you into a thousand irretrievable, irreparable pieces. 

And he will never know.


End file.
